


Switching Channels

by AgTung_Alcremist



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: (maybe), Canon Compliant, Early Days, For Radios, Fuery Is A Total Geek, Gen, Mustang's Team, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgTung_Alcremist/pseuds/AgTung_Alcremist
Summary: There's something more to Fuery's squad reassignment, but he not quite sure what.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33
Collections: Secret Snipers Exchange 2020





	Switching Channels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quae_bookmarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quae_bookmarks/gifts).
  * Inspired by [groundwork days](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509089) by [Nonymos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos). 



> FMA: Team Mustang  
> Prompt: For Team Mustang I'd especially love pre-canon stories and scenes like Nonymos' _Groundwork Days_
> 
> Beta-ed by NatureGuardian101.

Kain Fuery has been a private for all of three months, and a lance corporal for almost five, when he steps into a small office to accept his new stars and bars as a sergeant. Why is he getting promoted so quickly? All he does is operate radios. And fix them. Okay, the _fixing_ part may be something to boast about, but still. Why?

Fuery’s not experienced; He’s not a good leader, either. His academy graduation was less than a year ago and he only makes new friends because he’s kind and young and seems quite gullible (lots of people have tried to swindle him lately). Fake-flower friendships, mother would say. They’re pretty - but not _real_. 

“We’re glad to have you, Sergeant Fuery,” Second Lt. Hawkeye, the adjutant of his new direct superior, shows him over to a dark-oak desk which is neatly tucked into a corner of the room. “Your expertise is most welcome.”

Something nags at the back of Fuery’s mind, and it’s not just the fact that he can’t come up with a moniker to remember Lt. Hawkeye by. Hawkeye, Hawkeye… The name sounds familiar, too. There’s something more to this, but he can’t put his finger on it. He settles on ‘Helpful Hawkeye’. 

Fuery mulls this over as he slowly moves his personal belongings from his old switchboard-station (which is, unfortunately, across HQ) to the new one. He’s just lugged another box of radio parts back to the new office when a lanky soldier with a haphazard mop of straw-colored hair asks if he needs any help. Up close, the blue-eyed guy reeks of cigarette smoke. 

“That would be nice,” Fuery replies, smiling awkwardly, from behind a teetering stack of boxes. “If it isn’t inconvenient for you…”

“No problem,” The soldier cracks a grin. He unloads the topmost boxes from Fuery’s arms and sets them down gently. “That’s a lot of stuff you got there.”

“Er, yes, and there’s a couple more boxes I have to move…”

“Great, where are they?” The blue-eyed man asks with a slight sense of urgency and looks back at the room for a second; Lt. (Helpful) Hawkeye is busy sorting a giant stack of papers of some sort. 

“Switchboard-station 302,” Fuery chirps, and seeing the confusion on the guy’s face, adds, “A couple halls down.”

“Ah. Let’s go, before...” The lanky soldier briskly slides out the door after another furtive glance at Lt. Hawkeye, and motions for Fuery to follow.

Why this hasty? Fuery leads his potential(?) co-worker through the halls. The man seems nice - better than Blackburn, obviously. Still, why is he so eager to get out? The glance at Lt. Hawkeye? She was just sorting - Oh. She was doling out paperwork. It makes sense; the guy who's helping him doesn’t seem to be the type that likes sitting around all day. Or, he just wants to help. Mother would tell him to be on his guard, but the optimist in Fuery doesn’t think the guy's a manipulative person. He smiles all the same and hopes the guy doesn’t notice his internal debate.

“I never got your name, Sergeant,” The guy says suddenly, and it takes Fuery a second to realize he’s the one being addressed.

“Fuery, sir,” He replies, turning a corner. Someone salutes another officer, and with a start, Fuery realizes the man behind him is a warrant officer. Someone of higher rank! Oh… how insubordinate had he been? It if was Blackburn (Beastly Blackburn), he would have been chewed out already! “Sorry, Warrant Officer, sir!” Fuery stops and salutes the man behind him, who stops and blinks. “I uh…” How to say it? Just get it over with?

“No need to be so formal, Sergeant-”

“Havoc. Boss in yet?” A meaty brute with a rusty red mohawk and a mug of something in his hand nods at the officer. He looks to be the type that prioritizes brawn over brain. _He looks like a bulldog_ , Fuery thinks. _All that’s missing is the spiky collar and the ears._

“You know him,” the warrant officer - Havoc, Hasty Havoc, Helpful Havoc - grins. They must be friends, then. “He isn’t even here for our newest-”

“You’re Fuery, right?” The other warrant officer, the redhead, inquires.

“Yes, sir.” This time, Fuery’s careful to be polite. 

The redhead scratches the back of his neck. “The name’s Breda,” his bulldog frown becomes even more pronounced. “And don’t call me sir. Makes me feel old.”

Oh. “Yes, sir,” Fuery replies, timid. Breda - Bulldog Breda- is a big guy that looks kind of scary. “I meant- oh, sorry, I mean Warrant Officer Breda, sir-”

“If we got another Falman-” Warrant Officer Breda turns to Havoc.

“Is there anything of importance I need to be aware of, sirs?” A Master Sergeant with the narrowest eyes salutes stiffly. Very stiffly. He’s stuffy and bookish and gives a distinct air of a person that has memorized entire textbooks. For fun. So formal, all the time. Formal Falman.

“You need to lighten up, Falman,” Breda and Havoc drone together, and Fuery thinks it might be a recurring inside joke between them. So they’re friends too? What an unlikely trio. Oh, the jokes - A soldier, a brute, and an ex-librarian walk into a bar… 

“Lt. Hawkeye wanted to see you, Warrant Officer Breda.” Falman (Formal Falman) salutes again and leaves with Bulldog Breda in tow. 

Fuery watches them go for a second longer, then continues into another hallway and steps into Radio Room 3.   
  


A cluster of people surrounds him immediately, and he feels slightly sad to be leaving. “You’re leaving, corporal?” one pipes up.

“I’m not leaving, Gloster, just reassigned,” Fuery assures, smiling, albeit a little sadly. Gloster, Gracious Gloster, always could be a shoulder to lean on. Fuery should be excited about leaving Beastly Blackburn’s squad, and about having new opportunities under Mysterious Mustang, but there’s just a little twinge of guilt. He’ll be leaving Gloster, Gracious Gloster, Jolly Junkers, Fretful Fiat, Hearsay Havilland - he’ll be leaving his subordinates to fend for themselves. 

His thoughts must’ve shown, because Gloster claps Fuery on the shoulder and exclaims, “We’ll be fine on our own, corp- er, sergeant! Congratulations on your promotion!”

“Thanks. I’ll see you around - and Blackburn’s coming.” Fuery spies the hulking figure stomping towards them. 

He hurriedly makes his way to the old switchboard by the corner and pulls the last couple of boxes from under the table as a baritone voice yells, “GET BACK TO WORK!”

Blackburn. Beastly Blackburn, brutish, boorish, Bitter Blackburn. He’s angry today. 

Fuery picks up the boxes that Helpful Havoc’s not carrying and slinks out into the hallway. Or nearly does, anyway. He's almost to the door when he hears “FUERY!” and hightails it out of there, the boxes in his hands tipping dangerously. 

“That was a close call, Sergeant,” Helpful Havoc sets his boxes down to rearrange them. “Who was that, anyway?”.

“1st Lt. Blackburn. He’s usually better, but everyone has good days and bad days.”

“That reminds me - do you have a girlfriend? Wife? Significant other?”

“Erm-” Fuery’s thought process derails. Huh? “No? How about you?”

“Ah that makes me feel better,” Havoc grins, standing back up again. “You see, I had a girlfriend until a week ago, then the _Colonel_ stole her away. Again!”

“The Colonel?” Fuery can hear the capitalization. The Colonel? Who’s that? Oh- Mysterious Mustang. The girlfriend-stealer. He's heard plenty of rumors from Hearsay Havilland. 

“Yes! He’s stolen four girlfriends in the past three months! Ashley, Olivia, Ingrid, and Caroline! Ingrid even gave me a love letter -”

“She gave you a love letter?”

“TO GIVE TO THE COLONEL!”

Well. Fuery knows he shouldn’t laugh at other people’s pain, but Havoc - (Heartbroken Havoc?) - is so hilariously worked up that it’s hard not to find it funny. “Oh, I do hope you find somebody!” Fuery says earnestly instead because the other option is to facepalm and start giggling uncontrollably. He can't stop his grin from widening, though.

They enter the office, which is now moderately full. Everybody here, it seems, is of higher rank. He thanks warrant officer Havoc (Helpful, Heartbroken Havoc) for his help, then starts unpacking everything and wiring the switchboard and giving power to the- by golly! This station has a Collins ART-13! With auto-tune and new knobs - Fuery’s really lucked out this time.

.

.

.

It’s around eleven-hundred hours when warrant officer (Bulldog) Breda comes up to him and asks how he’s doing. Fuery gets a distinct impression that he’s being assessed, but it soon disappears when warrant officer (Helpful, Heartbroken) Havoc introduces everyone. 

“That’s Heymans Breda, you already know, and I’m Jean Havoc, obviously, and this is Falman-”

“Vato Falman, and it is a sincere pleasure to be acquainted, Sergeant Fuery.” The high-cheekboned master sergeant nods. Formal Falman. He’s so stuffy. 

“Likewise, sir.”

“And that over there - that’s-” helpful Havoc cuts off with a growing smirk. “ _That’s the Lt. Colonel._ ” He points to a dark-haired figure currently being berated by Lt. (Helpful) Hawkeye. 

“-need to do your _paperwork_ , sir-”

“-Lieutenant-”

“This is due by 1200 today, and _that_ has to be done by tomorrow-”

Lt. Colonel (Mysterious) Mustang nods lamely. Lt. Hawkeye is a scary woman. Harsh Hawkeye. There, Lt. Hawkeye has a moniker. 

“He got what he deserves,” (Hysterical? Nope, just Heartbroken) Havoc smirks. “For stealing my Caroline.”

“Is...That the _Flame Alchemist_?” Fuery asks, in a lightbulb moment of epiphany.

“Sure is,” Heartbroken Havoc grins even wider. “Contrary to popular belief, he’s not all pomp and circumstance behind a desk-”

Lieutenant (Harsh) Hawkeye, done with berating the Lt. Colonel, swivels her head and _looks_ at Heartbroken Havoc. Bulldog Breda smirks, head bent over, pretending to work at his own desk. Formal Falman is nowhere to be seen.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Havoc mumbles, and slides quickly into his own seat, furiously writing something.

Fuery gulps and hustles back to the tangle of wires that sits on his desk. There’s no need to get on Harsh Hawkeye’s bad side.

.

.

.

It’s nearly lunchtime, and Fuery thinks about the new group. Most of the people in the office have left for mess, and it’s just Lt. Col. (Mysterious) Mustang. There’s something deeper, the way Falman (Formal Falman), Bulldog Breda, and Heartbroken, Helpful Havoc speak about the Flame Alchemist. It’s not the standard superior-subordinate, but more like actual, genuine respect. The others in the office (Fuery’s talked to Sgt. (Iced-Tea) Ikarus and Lt. (Goldilocks) Gudkov) don’t have that. That’s one enigma. 

Another question is Lieutenant-colonel Roy Mustang (Mysterious Mustang) - The Flame Alchemist, Hero of Ishval, et cetera, et cetera. He's probably got more titles than the fingers on his hands, but Fuery can’t remember them all. The guy is young and mid-sized, with a clean-shaven round face, dark eyes peering sharply from behind darker bangs. 

He’s young. Whatever Fuery imagined the Hero of Ishval to be, it’s not, well, this. He studies his superior. What does the Flame Alchemist see in him, to request him personally (or so Bulldog Breda and Hearsay Havilland say)? A technology geek? A kind soul? A naive young soldier? Even more pressing, what does he want from Fuery? Why not pick another soul, more experienced in the ways of the military?

“That’s quite the setup you’ve got there, Sergeant Fuery,” Somehow, Mysterious Mustang has snuck up behind him. “You seem to be very proficient with this.”

“It started out as a hobby, but thank you for the compliment, sir!” Fuery chirps back, using his standard rebuttal.

“How are you adjusting? Are there any questions you would like to ask?” Mysterious Mustang is already looking to be better than Beastly, Boorish Blackburn.

‘Nothing, sir!’ Fuery should click his boot-heels together and snap a proud salute. ‘Thank you for the opportunity’ He can’t quite seem to say it, though. His brain suddenly short-circuits, the only signal running along the tangled wires is - “Why?”

“Hm?” the Lt. Colonel looks at Fuery. Really looks at Fuery.

Oh, the ever-loving levels of hell. He’d had actually said that out loud; He’d rather assemble an entire circuit board from scratch. “I mean, why me?” Fuery clarifies and tries not to fidget. He’s pretty sure his whole face is redder than a tomato. “There are probably loads of people better than me when it comes to radios and such…”

“I believe your skills would be better utilized in the field. Your expertise would be a welcome addition to my team.”

He drops the bomb, then pauses and closes his mouth for Fuery’s response. This must be the _real_ result of the transfer he’d requested not quite a week ago. Things are starting to really fall into place now, the switches and knobs flicked and twisted in the right places to receive a clear signal. Mysterious Mustang wants, personally, his skills and his loyalty. But how far does he want Fuery to go?

“Thank you, sir,” He salutes meekly, mind buzzing with static like an improperly-tuned radio. He’s hesitant about joining. The hole that Fuery could jump into could be deep, and the repercussions severe. 

Still, (Mysterious) Mustang can’t be worse than (Biting) Blackburn, right? “I will join your team,” Fuery clicks his boot-heels softly and snaps another, if slightly hesitant, salute. He can always request another transfer if things turn sour, or quit and move back to Postcrim. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”

“Good to know, Sergeant. Would you care for a game of chess?”

Huh? That sounded like an order, strange as it is, and Fuery can’t refuse. He forces his face to tone down the dumb surprise. Mysterious Mustang is truly an enigma. “If you have nothing to do, sir…?”

“The paperwork is not important, and I feel like we both could use a break-”

Harsh Hawkeye chooses this moment to pointedly clear her throat. She must have walked in some time ago.

“On second thought - maybe tomorrow,” (Meek?) Mustang sighs a little guiltily. “I seem to have a lot of things to do.”

(End)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, Quae! Even if it's not half as good as Nonymos' _Groundwork Days_... I hope you like this work!


End file.
